


Footsteps on the Bridge

by Starlithorizon



Series: Alchemy and Guitar Ties [32]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:38:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the bridge that night, he heard footsteps behind him and a soft voice telling him to come back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Footsteps on the Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for suicidal thoughts, a suicide attempt, and further mentions of it.

He was tired, and hungry, and so cold as he huddled against the dark breeze. With a shivery breath, he tightened his grip on the rail, leaning out over the edge. Water swirled and eddied, black and white in the shadowed evening.

It would be easy, so easy.

Slowly, with infinite care, he lifted one leg over the rail, straddling it. His hands gripped convulsively at the rusting metal, and the wind whipped at his skinny body like an admonition.

The other leg swung over the rail to meet the first and he found himself hovering over that black and white water with nothing but the wind separating them.

The bridge wasn't too high from the water, maybe eight feet, but he knew that the water would be _cold_. He was also very starkly aware that if he didn't die of hypothermia, he would probably drown. Such was the case of the fellow who couldn't swim, who'd also loaded his pockets with rocks.

He was ready to stand here for as long as it took him to build up the courage to jump. Or fall. Whichever. He wasn't expecting to do either for a while. He wasn't exactly known for his courage, or anything really. That was why he'd been single for over six years, and everything.

No one would miss him.

No one would notice.

The wind continually buffeted against him, and the cold slid around his exposed skin like snakes, slithering through his sleeves and trouser legs and freezing his fingers. He was always cold, and always alone.

He heard footsteps behind him. They were slow steps, full of certainty and confidence. He had never had either of those things; the bearer of those steps had probably never hated themselves the way he had for so very long. When he wasn't feeling hollowed out and bereft, he was full of self-loathing.

The footsteps stopped.

"That's not very safe."

The owner of the footsteps was a man, and his deep voice had the same surety and strength. He wasn't expecting the kindness and concern in this stranger's voice, though, and it was jarring.

What could he say to this stranger? Piss off? Let me die in peace?

"I know," he said, and even he was surprised at the heavy dullness of his own voice.

"Then perhaps you should come back over here."

It was the calmness in this man's words, the gentle _perhaps_ that startled him. Anyone else seeing a bloke about to off himself would panic, scream about how he had so much to live for, perhaps threaten to bring him over bodily. Not this stranger with the confident voice and footsteps suggesting that he come back instead.

His grip grew tighter.

"No. I'm going to jump. You can't stop me."

His voice shook like a tree in the wind that was currently wailing.

"I can't," the stranger agreed. "You _can_."

The power rested quite firmly in his hands, which were wrapped so tightly and coldly around the rail lest he fall before he was ready. It was a heady feeling, and it felt like...something. It was a nebulous thing, but it was the first thing in a long while.

"Only if you stay back," he warned. He could imagine the stranger nodding.

"Of course. It's all on your terms. I'll leave if you want me to."

"No, stay."

He hadn't meant to spill out the words (plea, really), but there they were, scattered at his feet. An admission of his loneliness. It hurt like hell to admit it that way, but he couldn't bring himself to totally care.

Slowly, carefully, he turned a bit and lifted each leg over the rail. He let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding when he was back on solid ground. For the first time, he looked at the stranger.

Greying hair and kind eyes framed with creases. Golden wedding band on the left hand. Good quality shoes and clothing.

What did this man, with his nice coat and wedding ring, know about any of this? The stranger looked like he hadn't known a bad day in his life.

"What's your name?" the stranger asked.

"Bill."

"Well, Bill, there's a little cafe down the road from here. Come with me. We'll get some food and you can tell me if you want."

Bill shrugged, thrusting his frozen hands into his pockets.

He followed the stranger.

* * *

The cafe was warm and homely. The chairs surrounding the little tables were soft and cushy and smelled faintly of warm bodies. The cafe itself smelled of cinnamon and tea. There were only a few others, talking in pairs and reading on their own. It was the kind of place he would frequent if he could afford it.

"Thank you," Bill said, holding up the cup of tea and gesturing at the pastry so that his meaning could not be misconstrued.

"You're welcome," the stranger said before taking a sip of his own tea.

They sat companionably in silence, and Bill was certain that the stranger was waiting for him to speak, to explain and tell his story.

With a sigh, he set his cup down and took a steeling breath.

"No one takes me seriously, and I'm so alone," he found himself choking out. The stranger merely nodded, encouraging him to go on. "I'm a writer, and I've written over thirty novels— _thirty_! Every single one has been rejected! It's demoralising, you know? And I haven't had a date in six years, and I live in this really shit flat, and I'm always so afraid to talk to my mum or dad because they keep asking about girlfriends and jobs. God, I've wanted to be a writer since I was a little kid. I've been writing stories for as long as I can remember, and I always told everyone that I'd be a famous author some day. 'You'll be reading my books one day!' Ha. I'm a goddamned fool."

The stranger simply nodded here and there, sipped at his tea, and cocked his head to the side to encourage him further.

"No one in my family believes I'll ever do what I set out to do, and it's _awful_ to wake up one day realising you're in the same shit job you've been in for five years instead of doing what you want to do, what you _love_. And then to face the fact that, if I left, no one would miss me. Not a single person. Yeah, I've some decent coworkers, but I don't think they actually care about me. And I've been living in this attic flat for the past six years, and all the kids I share the place with are doing big things and getting ready for their big lives doing big things."

Bill took a deep, shuddering breath.

"I'm a failure. Only reason I didn't off myself at home was because I didn't want to _inconvenience_ the students with my corpse." He laughed, and it was mirthless. "How pathetic is that?"

"What do you do?" the stranger finally asked, voice soft and thoughtful.

"I work for the illustrious _Fitton Mirror_. It's the only writing job I could get."

"Do you like it?"

"That's a strange—"

"Do you like your job? Even a little?"

"I— Yes, I suppose. Well enough. The, uh, the man who runs it is kind of, well, _dictator-y_ , and the other writer is a disgraced journalist from The Guardian who doesn't get that _I'm_ the head journalist, and the boss's daughter is kind but a little daft. I _like_ that job, but I get paid nearly nothing, so I work a crappy job as a telemarketer on the side and I hate that one. So damned much."

The stranger smiled.

"I've heard a lot of stories over the years," he said slowly, "but yours is the best, I think."

"The _best_?"

"When I turned six, I wanted to be an airline captain. Before that, I wanted to be an aeroplane..."

* * *

The stranger, whose name was Martin, told Bill all about his life. About the bitterness and the transient students below him and the van. About the cantankerous CEO, the effortless first officer, the lovely steward. About the princess he'd dated and lost. About the man he'd found who would then become his husband. It was a story woven with love and luck and absolutely absurd adventures.

Martin told Bill about his life in honest terms.

He admitted that he had contemplated throwing himself over that bridge years and years ago, well before MJN had claimed him. He told Bill that he often walked along that path now to stop others from doing what he had almost done.

This man, this Martin Crieff-Shappey, was like a guardian angel for so many people.

Bill nearly broke down and cried when he realised that one of the people Martin had saved was his sister. He'd no idea that Rachel had even thought about it.

When they got up to part, over two hours had passed. Martin smiled and gave him a business card. On one side, it read, _Martin Crieff-Shappey, CEO Icarus Removals_. On the other, _Martin Crieff-Shappey, Captain MJN Air_. The number on each side was the same, obviously his mobile number.

"Please, call me whenever you like. Even if it's at three in the morning."

Captain Crieff-Shappey patted Bill lightly on the shoulder, gave him a grin with crinkly eyes, and left without another word. Bill turned the card in his fingers, feeling the luxurious weight and quality of it.

With quiet resolution, he entered the number into his phone and left the cafe, turning east toward Parkside Terrace. Toward home.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for a while, actually. I kept thinking about all the Martin whump we've got, and I then decided that I wanted Martin to be the one to keep someone from something like this. I wanted him to use his own life as an example and stop it.  
> As much as I love Martin Whump (don't we all, just a little bit), I just really wanted him to use his own happiness to bring a spark to others.


End file.
